


In The Flesh

by Tea_and_Sympathy



Category: History Boys (2006), History Boys - All Media Types, History Boys - Bennett
Genre: Dakin is impulsive, Danger Mouse rides again, Fluff, Gen, Irwin is reckless, Jenny is long suffering, M/M, Matthew keeps his head down, Multi, New Year's Day, New Year's Kiss, New Year's Resolutions, Sarah is curious, Sarah is her own special creation, Sarah takes charge, Tom's dad needs a drink, Tom's mum likes the word nice, happy new year
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:09:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28452912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tea_and_Sympathy/pseuds/Tea_and_Sympathy
Summary: Walking up the hall, Tom could see the shape of him through the glass—an obscured outline slowly coming into focus. He knew he would know immediately, and part of him wanted to delay the knowing. But a knock must be answered: be it love, death, or mere interruption.
Relationships: Stuart Dakin/Tom Irwin
Comments: 26
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Ghost of Dickmas Past](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28245021) by [Gleaming_Spires (cuppaktea)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuppaktea/pseuds/Gleaming_Spires). 



> You know that thing where you lose touch with someone you were close to and you randomly get back together and it's like no time has passed at all? You just pick up right where you left off, and it's so easy you wonder why on earth you let it go in the first place? That.

“Tom...! Tom...! Answer the bloody phone, I’ve got my hands up a chicken’s doodah.” 

“I’m going. When I can peel your kids off me. Pack it in... Hush... Hello... Be quiet! I can’t hear a thing...Yes, hello. Sorry about that.” 

“Sir...? Sorry, Mr Irwin?” 

“Um, yes, this is Tom Irwin. Sorry, who is this?” 

“Dakin...Stuart.” 

“Bloody Hell. Dakin? Seriously?” 

“Deadly. Hello. Happy New Year. I suppose I should backdate for the past four years too.” 

Tom glanced at his sister, who was standing horror struck and open mouthed. He motioned for a pen and paper, but she waved her blooded hands at him and shrugged. Relenting, she rolled her eyes and told her daughter to fetch her uncle the necessary equipment. 

“Err... and happy new year to you too”, Tom went on. “Look, I’m going to go somewhere quieter. Give me your number and I’ll call you back. It's bedlam in here.” 

He scribbled down the number and hung up, knowing he'd have to face Jennifer before fleeing upstairs. 

“Stuart Dakin? What the hell does he want?”, she demanded. 

“I have no idea”, came the honest reply. 

“I expect he wants to tell you about the love child you fathered. It must need a new kidney or something.” 

“Fuck off, Jen. I don’t know why I told you.” 

“Who else would you tell? You’re not really going to call him, are you?” 

“Yes, I’m afraid I am”, he said, walking out of the kitchen with Jenny rapidly wiping her hands and trailing behind him. 

She stood at the bottom of the stairs, and talked to his receding back. “Tom? Really? Is that wise?” 

“No. No, it is not wise”, he called back. 

“Starting the year as you mean to go on then?” 

“Looks like it”, he said, as he disappeared into his bedroom. 

“Just... don’t be sucked in... sorry, poor choice of words. Just be careful!” She yelled after him. 

*******

Tom sat on the edge of his bed and took a few calming breaths, before picking up the phone and punching the number. He half assumed it wouldn’t connect. 

“Hello”, said a voice full of mischief and conspiracy. 

“Hello”, he replied. “Dakin?” 

“Who were you expecting?” 

“I don’t know. I... Are you alright?” 

“Perfectly. I think I might finally be perfectly alright.” 

“That’s good. Not in need of a new kidney then?” 

“What?” 

“Never mind... Dakin, what is this?” 

“I’ve watched your programme.” 

“Really? What do you think?” 

“I thought the camera was meant to add ten pounds—you’re still skinny.” 

“I wasn’t asking how I look.” 

“No, I suppose not. Still, skinny is the wrong word. You look good. It suits you. The whole television thing suits you. Anyway, I’ve been reading your book too. It’s very good. It’s very...you.” 

“Thank you... Dakin, you haven’t got in touch after five years to give me a review, have you?” 

“No. I got it for Christmas...” 

“Uh huh...” 

“...Alright, I bought it for myself—for Christmas. And... it’s just... when I’m reading it, it’s your voice. In my head.” 

“That must be unsettling.” 

“It is. And... yesterday I decided I’d like to hear it for real. In the flesh, as it were. And there’s that picture of you on the dust jacket...” 

“What about it?” 

“I don’t know, but I can’t stop looking at it. I can’t stop... So, you, in the flesh, are my New Year’s resolution.” 

“I’m flattered. I think. That’s impulsive of you.” 

“Reckless?” 

“Yes... Stuart, what do you want?” 

“I’m here in London. I’m at UCL. Law conversion. Moved in September.” 

“Oh.” 

“Is that all you’re going to say?” 

“I’m dumbstruck. I’m also waiting for you to get to the point."

“God, you’re as annoying as ever. Right. Okay, I’ll get to the point. I want to see you. Do you want to see me?” 

“I want all kinds of things that are bad for me.” 

“Shall I take that as a yes?” 

There was a long, weighty pause. Eventually Stuart said, “Tom?” And maybe it was that, in the end, that forced the moment. The turning point. He called him Tom. He used his name and it changed... everything. “Christ”, he said, “Alright. It’s a new year, let’s go with impulsive and reckless”. 

“It might even be immoral.” 

“Quite possibly. I think I’m going to regret this, but, yes, Stuart, I want to see you.” 

“Where then? When?” 

Tom began to laugh quietly, until Stuart asked, “What’s funny?” 

He replied, “Let’s push the impulsive, reckless, immoral boat out. I want to see you here. Now”. 

“Seriously?” 

“Yep. I have my sister, brother-in-law, niece, nephew, and my parents coming for lunch. As you can see, it’s an odd number—I need a date.” Stuart laughed too and called him a bad man. 

“Yes”, he answered, “I believe I am. And you will be sweet, charming, amusing, and attentive. The perfect lunch guest, in fact. Won’t you?” 

“Of course. Do I have something to prove?” 

“Many, many things. Up for it?” 

“Definitely.” 

*******

“Who?”, asked Matthew. 

Jenny, who was roll cutting carrots with extreme prejudice, spat, “You know, the manipulative little shit who broke his heart. Never came near him through all the wheelchair, crutches, rehabilitation agony. Who was it who dealt with that? Who? I’ll tell you who. Me! Who had to listen to him endlessly going over the thing that was never a thing with Stuart Wunderkind Dakin? Me! And now I’m expected to cook him lunch, at a moment's notice and be a charming hostess. In _your_ house, I hasten to add”. She waved her knife alarmingly at Tom. “Why am I cooking the fucking lunch anyway?” 

“Because you offered”, said Tom. “You said it would be a break from the kids, and I’ve been their climbing frame all morning.” 

At that, Matthew made a silent, “Think I’ll go and watch telly with them”, face at his brother-in-law, and Tom signalled, “Go on without me, save yourself” with his eyebrows. He slipped silently out of the door. 

‘Oh, yeah. More fool me”, said Jenny. 

“Jen?” 

“What?” 

“Please... Jen” 

“I can’t see you hurt like that again, Tom. I can’t.” 

“It's just lunch. There’s probably nothing there anymore and we can draw a line under it. Maybe be friends, or something.” 

“Yeah, right. If you could see your face—smitten kitten. How _does_ he do it?” She threw up her hands in exasperation and sighed, “Alright. He gets one chance. One”. She pointed her knife at him again, “Understood?” 

Tom nodded. “You’ll love him”, he replied. 

“Will I? What makes you think that?” 

He put his arm around his big sister’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “He’s a lot like you”, he said. 

“Jesus. Let’s not pick the Freudian bones out of that one”, she said, grinning down at the sacrificial carrots. “One chance, Tom. One.” 

“I love you, Jen", he said, and kissed the top of her head. 

“Yeah, yeah. Christ, I’m a sucker. Pass those oven gloves. What are we going to tell mum and dad? Best get our stories straight.” 

“He’s an old friend. We worked together when we were both in education.” 

“Too fast, Thomas.” 

“What?” 

“Looks like you’ve had that one lined up for some time.” 

“Might have.” 

“God, you’re hopeless, you love-sick fool. Okay. Well, it’s the truth—after a fashion. Anyway, undo that top button—you’re altogether too buttoned up.” 

He did as he was told, “Better?”, he asked. 

Jenny smiled at him. “Gorgeous”, she said. 

*******

At the first knock, Tom started and glanced nervously at his watch. “It’s too soon”, said Jenny, “It’ll be mum and dad. Calm down”. And sure enough he heard Matthew greeting them at the door and in seconds his mother was upon him, arms open—his father, as ever, in her wake. 

“Hello, darling” she said, kissing him. “Happy New Year. Mmmm, something smells nice. Jennifer’s in harness, I see.” 

“Happy New Year to you too, Mum”, snapped his sister 

His mother released her grip and headed over to get in her daughter’s way—his father shook his hand. His mother asked, “Jenny, sweetheart, why are you grumpy?” 

“I’m not grumpy.” 

“You are.” She reached and stroked Jenny’s forehead—to her obvious annoyance. She said, “Don’t be a sourpuss, those cross little lines between your eyebrows are beginning to set”. 

“Oh thanks, good to know. I’m just busy, Mum, and Tom’s invited an extra at the last minute.” 

“Has he? That’s nice. Isn’t it nice? Who?” 

“An old friend.” 

“Well, that’s alright, isn’t it? We’ll be a nice even number. Who is she?” 

“He, mum. Honestly... how many times?” 

“Tom has women friends.” She turned and entreated her son, “Don’t you, Tom?” 

“Yes, but...”, Tom flailed 

“Not that kind of friend, Mum”, said Jenny. 

“Oh... oh...well... that’s... nice.” 

Tom’s father rolled his eyes at his daughter, and asked if there were any danger of being offered a drink to welcome in the new year. His mother agreed rather too quickly it was a good idea. Jenny waved her dirty hands at them and suggested their son might do it—it being his house. 

“Sherry?”, asked Tom. 

*******

At the second knock, Tom was out of the kitchen before anyone else had a chance to offer to get it. Jenny shot him a smile as he went out, but no one else was paying attention—occupied as they were with drinks and snacks and gossip and kids. 

Walking up the hall, Tom could see the shape of him through the glass—an obscured outline slowly coming into focus. He knew he would know immediately, and part of him wanted to delay the knowing. Glancing at himself in the hall mirror, he put his fingertips to his exposed throat. Jenny had been right—about the button.

But a knock must be answered: be it love, death, or mere interruption. 

He opened the door and Stuart looked, thought Tom, like a properly grown-up, legitimately desirable man. And he properly, legitimately, desired him and that was just fine—not a trace of anything shameful in it. Struggling to contain the joy and relief of that knowledge, he said, “A dark-haired, handsome man bearing gifts. Very traditional. Unfortunately, you’re not my first-footer, my parents got here before you. Thank you though”. 

Stuart stepped through the door and proffered a carrier bag containing the best a service station on New Year’s Day could provide. He laughed and glanced upwards as though looking for something. He said, “Honestly, could you not have stretched to some mistletoe? Oh, fuck it. Pretend there’s mistletoe.” And before Tom had a chance to argue, he was pressed against the banisters and being kissed with the passion of a sleeper who’s woken to discover he’s somehow lost five years and is not prepared to waste any more time. And Tom, shaking off the cobwebs of his own hibernation, was not about to ask him to slow down—they might spend the rest of the winter in bed and surface sometime around March, for all he cared. With one brief prayer for his family to stay safely in the kitchen, he slipped his free arm around his waist, pulled him in and lost himself to it. Lost himself to Stuart and hope and new beginnings. 

Coming up for air, he said, “Stuart, do you think you could let me put this bag down?” 

“No. I like you... disarmed. Happy New Year.” 

“I believe you said that already.” 

Stuart took the bag from him, placed it on the ground, and kissed him again, slow and soft. He said, “Not in the flesh. The flesh is so much better.” 

“Oh, God, it really is”, said Tom, as a small figure flickered across the periphery of his vision, and disappeared into the kitchen saying, “Mummy...?” 

He sighed and said, “Come and meet my family. Best behaviour, now, you promised”. 

Stuart kissed, “Charming...? Amusing...? Attentive...?” along his jaw and down his neck, before Tom pushed him reluctantly away. He took his hand and led him up the hall, saying, “And sweet. I suggest you start with my sister”. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dakin meets his match, and she's a (nearly) six year old girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I wrote the first chapter, I almost tagged it a one-shot. Yeah right—the whole damn family wants to stick their oar in now. Oh, but it's been fun having Sarah in my head. I suspect she isn't done yet.  
> P. S. I switched to Dakin's POV, but hey, it's a new chapter.

Tom let go of Stuart’s hand and pushed open the door—if the kitchen is the heart of the home, this one was pumping fit to burst. Tom’s sister was trying to explain something to his niece, and there followed a tense, whispered conversation between the siblings—venomous glances were shot his way. The little girl gave him a grimace and a withering look and stomped out; she was followed by her dad carrying a shrieking child. Matthew smiled and nodded, “Nice to meet you”, he said, “Happy New Year. Sorry, stinky baby”, before carrying the offending toddler upstairs. Tom’s mother was putting the finishing touches to an enormous trifle—she wished Stuart a happy New Year, before returning to rearranging and disapproving of the contents of her son’s fridge. Tom’s father reached over her head to find a beer, which he handed to Stuart by way of greeting—this, at least, was welcome. Ma and Pa Irwin then set up what sounded like practised bickering over her interference and his insensitivity, and Stuart’s beer remained unopened. It was a relief to realise not a soul would notice if he excused himself.

Stepping back into the hall, he heard a familiar tune coming from the living room. He poked his head around the door to find Tom’s niece watching TV—as far as building bridges were concerned, this was as good a place to start as any. “Hello”, he said, “What are you watching?”

“Danger Mouse”, she replied, without bothering to turn around. She was wearing what he assumed was her best frock, and she looked less than delighted by it. Her strawberry blonde hair was cut in a neat bob with an overlong fringe that refused to be contained by a haphazardly placed clip.

“I love Danger Mouse. Can I watch too?”, he asked.

“S’pose”, came the grudging reply.

Instinct told him to stay low and not make eye contact—best not antagonise the beast. He grabbed a cushion and sat on the floor leaning against the sofa. Her feet dangled by his shoulder—shiny shoes and fancy, ruffled socks discarded in a heap. They stared at the television in silence, until he said, “My name’s Stuart. What’s your name?” She said nothing, but withdrew her feet, tucked them neatly under her dress, and sat cross legged. She smoothed down her skirt, “Sarah. I’m six”, she said.

“Nice to meet you, Sarah. I’m twenty-four, I bet you think that’s old.”

“Not as old as Uncle Tom, he’s twenty-nine.”

“Ancient.”

“What’s ashunt?”

“Really, really old. Is Danger Mouse going to win this time, d'you think?”

“Silly. He always wins.”

“One day he might not.”

“That’s just silly...” After a long pause, she said, “You were kissing Uncle Tom”.

“I was, yes”

“Why?”

“I like him. And he looked like he wanted a kiss—a special kiss for New Year.”

“Oh...” She took some time to contemplate this, before saying, “I didn’t know boys could kiss boys”.

“They can”, he said. “And girls can kiss girls.”

“Oh...in my books, girls only kiss boys and boys only kiss girls. But mostly the girls are princesses and mermaids going about being rescued.”

“Boring.”

“Yeah. Mummy thinks they’re silly books, but I like them—a bit.” She paused, before going on in a breathless rush, “Mummy likes Pippi Longstocking—she’s the strongest girl in the world. Pippi can pick up a horse and she has a monkey and two friends and adventures but no grown-ups. She tells a lot of fibs though. Do you like her? Her monkey is called Mr Nilsson”.

He turned to look at her, twisting sideways to sit in a devotional pose with his elbows on the sofa. He smiled at her and said, “She sounds like my kind of girl”. Sarah returned him a long, penetrating stare, before saying, “ _I_ told a fib”.

“Did you?”

“I’m not really six.”

“Are you a hundred?”, he asked, “You look amazing”.

She laughed out loud, but quickly slapped her hand over her mouth to hide her gappy teeth. “Nooooooo. I’m really five”, she said, “But I’m nearly six. Really, very nearly six. Are you cross for the fib?”

He grinned, “Nah. Doesn’t make any difference to me... What do you want to be when you grow up, Sarah?” She pretended to think about it—head in a coquettish tilt, finger to her chin—he knew artifice when he saw it. She said, “An astronaut. Or a doctor. Or maybe a doctor astronaut. And I like writing stories so, maybe, a doctor astronaut who writes stories”.

“I think being a doctor astronaut would give you lots of things to write stories about.”

“Yes.”

“So, it’s very sad you can’t be a doctor astronaut.”

“I can!”, she exclaimed, “My mummy says I can”.

“But you’re a girl.”

“So?”

“In your books the girls aren’t doctor astronauts, they’re princesses and mermaids, and they only kiss boys.”

Her look said she thought he must be the stupidest boy alive. “Books aren’t true, Stuart”, she declared, “It’s not real, true life!” She shook her head, “Not real, true life”.

“Really?”

“No! Silly.”

“Oh... I didn’t know that. Well, be a doctor astronaut who writes stories then. Good for you.”

“I will. And in _my_ stories people, especially girls, can be anything and do their own rescuing and kiss anyone—anyone who wants a kiss. She leaned down and peered at him so closely that her face became a blur. He endured her inspection until, sitting up, having made her decision, she said, “Your eyes are pretty”.

“Thank you”, he said, “I like your hair”.

She tossed her head extravagantly, finally shaking loose the clip. “I like my hair too. It’s a nice colour, isn’t it?”

“It’s a very nice colour. And you think up the best stories. I think I would like to read your stories.”

“Do you want a go in my spaceship too?”

“Yes please.”

“Okay.” With that she went back to staring at the television, while he stared at her. He liked her neatness. He liked the way all of her future self was contained, tightly wrapped, in the folded layers of her. Sarah, he thought, was no hot house flower, she was a forest fern—something emergent—she would unfurl in her own way, in own time. He couldn’t decide if his illuminations were sunshine or something forced—If the latter, he was sorry for it.

“Sarah?”, he said.

“Yeah?”

“I think it was a bit rude of me not to introduce myself before you saw me kissing uncle Tom.”

Chameleon like, she instantly became her grandmother. Eyes open wide and in a forbidding tone, she said, “It was very rude. It was quite a shock, I can tell you! I’m too young to see people kissing”. But reverting to herself, she whispered, “Cept I seen daddy and mummy kissing once. Don’t tell”.

“I won’t. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to give you a shock. But I like your Uncle Tom a lot and I haven’t seen him for a long time and I missed him.”

“Oh.”

“But still, it was rude.”

“Yes...but I forgive you. Is he your best person?”

He admired the directness of her question and considered it worthy of a direct answer. “I think he might be. But I don’t know if I’m his best person, yet", he said. 

“Will you be sad if you’re not?”

“Yes, I think I will.”

She looked at him with fathomless compassion, before saying, “I hope you are his best person then”.

“Thank you”, he said, “That’s nice.”

Tom’s head appeared around the door and Stuart’s stomach did a small flip at the sight of him—still not believing the thing he had made happen was happening. Tom said, “Here you are. What are doing?”

“Watching Danger Mouse”, they said, in unison. Sarah yelled, “Jinx! You have to be quiet now, Stuart”. She pointed an imperious finger at him, “You can’t say anything until I say. Ha Ha!”.

If he’d learnt nothing else in the past five years, he’d learnt that knowing when to shut up is as important as knowing when to speak— he mimed zipping his lip. He turned back to the TV and Tom stepped over his outstretched legs to sit on the sofa next to Sarah. Putting his arm around her he said, “Hello, trouble. Can I have a cuddle?” Stuart smiled to himself, imagining Tom speaking to him. Sarah turned and snuggled up to her uncle, and wriggled her toes into Stuart’s hair. “Ow”, he said, though it didn’t hurt at all, and reached back and grabbed her foot. Sarah shrieked and giggled and pulled away. “Shush”, she demanded, “Uncle Tom?”

“Yes?”

“I like your friend.”

“Good. Me too. I like him a lot.”

“That’s what he said. Is he your best person?”

“Sarah, that’s private.”

“You were kissing him! That wasn’t private.”

“Sarah...”

“... _He_ said...”

“... Sarah. Enough!”, chided Tom.

Sarah leaned forward and whispered to Stuart, “You say it. You can speak now”. He thought it best to do as he was told. He stared straight ahead at the TV and said, “He thinks you might be _his_ best person but he doesn’t know if he’s _your_ best person, and he thinks he’ll be sad if he’s not”.

“Soooooooo? Is he?”, Sarah, persisted.

Tom sighed and curled his fingers into Stuart’s hair where Sarah’s toes had been. He said, “Maybe... maybe. I’ll think about it. You’ll be the first to know”. And, once again, Stuart wasn’t sure which of them he was talking to.

On the television, Baron Greenback was defeated and Danger Mouse once again victorious.

“Lunch!”, came the cry from the kitchen, and Sarah shot off, barefoot—making no attempt to gather her shoes and socks. Tom pulled Stuart up from the floor and gave him a soft kiss, “One down”, he said.

“Crikey”, said Penfold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am still writing Northern Sky and Like the Deserts Miss the Rain (and maybe some other stuff), but I'm taking a New Year detour that kind of needs to be done in January, dontcha think?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stuart is formally introduced—by Sarah.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's growing - that was predictable. I intended to confine this to January, with it being a New Year thing. Hmmm, I might be done with it by summer. Stuart is doing A LOT of talking. I could stop and pick it up in Jan 2022. Shall I?

One little kiss. Tom reached out a hand and locked forearms with him in a sinuous, reciprocal clasp before lifting him up and kissing him as though it were the most natural thing in the world—as though he’d done it every day for the past five years, and what of it? Stuart kissed him back, slipping the tip of his tongue between parting lips until the little kiss became a big kiss, became a smooch—and Sarah raced back into the room shouting, “Again? For goodness’ sake!”, and started throwing cushions around. “Don’t just stand there doing...that”, she waved her hand at them, dismissively, “Help me, I’m in trouble”. 

“Perhaps if you told us what kind of trouble”, suggested Tom. 

“Granny trouble. Smarten yourself up, young lady—get that hair out of your eyes and put something on your feet. Where is it, Stuart? You saw.” Stuart slipped his hand down the side of the seat cushion and retrieved a shiny treasure. He held it out to her on his palm, but she stood stock still and stared. 

“What?”, he asked. 

“I can’t do it myself, can I?” 

“No?” 

“No. I’m only five.” 

“Oh, so you’re five now—that’s convenient.” 

Tom rolled his eyes and took the clip. He secured her fringe rather severely out of the way, saying, “Stuart knows nothing about little girls’ hair. And what have you been telling him?” 

“She tried to convince me she was a much older woman”, answered Stuart. 

“Don’t be fooled. She’s a hooligan and a terrible fibber.” 

“I can’t think where she gets it from”, Stuart said before kneeling to help her. He straightened her toe seams and pushed on a shoe. 

“What do you say?”, Tom reminded her. 

Sarah sighed and trilled, “Thank you... Anyway, it’s his fault”. 

“How is it my fault?”, Stuart asked—pausing, shoe in hand. 

“Because you’re a guest, and what will you think of me?” 

“Granny?”, asked Tom. 

“Yup”, said Sarah. 

Stuart pushed the other shoe onto her foot, stood up, and put out his hand. “Come on then, Cinderella”, he said, “take me to the ball”. She grinned and slipped her hand in his. “Okay. But no more kissing until you’ve been properly introduced. Are you listening, Uncle Tom?” 

“Always, Sarah, always”, Tom called after her as she raced off to the kitchen, bursting through the door hand in hand with Stuart. 

“Hello”, she called. “Hello everyone. This is my friend, Stuart. He was Uncle Tom’s friend, but he’s mine now too, so I got to introduce him.” She pulled him over to her mother, who was wrestling with the bird, now cooked and golden. “Stuart, this is Mummy”, Sarah said, “She’s Uncle Tom’s big sister. Mummy, this is Stuart, he knows nothing about girls, and he’s hardly read any good books, so you can talk to him about that”. 

“Sorry, she’s so rude”, said Jenny, attempting to put out a hand. When it became apparent she didn’t have one to spare, Stuart waved it away to release her from the obligation. She smiled and nodded, “I’m Jenny”, she said, “Welcome.” 

“Thanks, sorry to crash—” 

“—C’mon do that later”, Sarah protested, propelling him over to her father, who had a bottle of wine between his knees and was trying to extricate the cork. 

“Erm... Daddy. This is Stuart. Daddy likes Danger Mouse too, and all kinds of cartoons, so, there you go.” 

“Matthew”, said Matthew, also finding he had no free hand with which to take Stuart’s. “Hi... Sarah, we do have names. I can hold forth on topics as diverse as Willo the Wisp and Noggin the Nog, if you’re interested.” Stuart laughed. “I’m more of a Clangers man myself”, he said, “But I’m sure we can come to an accommodation. Nice to meet you”. He formed the instant opinion Matthew would be the easiest member of this family to accommodate. 

“Yes, yes”, said Sarah, swivelling him round to face the other direction. “Granny. Granny, come here”, Sarah called to her grandmother, who was at the table straightening cutlery and moving glasses a quarter-inch to the right. She looked up and smiled but didn’t respond to Sarah’s entreaty. “Look, I’m all tidy now”, Sarah said. Her grandmother stopped, and looked her up and down from a distance. She said, “That’s better, dear”, and walked towards them with no visible sense of urgency. Sarah rattled on, “Granny, this is Stuart. Granny has a name, but I never say it, so I’ve forgot. She’s a teacher but not at my school— that would be weird. Granny’s Uncle Tom’s mummy.” She tugged on Stuart’s hand and motioned for him to lean down so she could whisper in his ear, “She wasn’t very pleased about the kissing... sssssh”, she said. Then, pretending her confidential aside had been inaudible, if not invisible, went on, “D’you like trifle?” 

“I love it”, said Stuart. 

“Granny makes the best trifle. It’s got sherry in it, but I’m still allowed some.” 

“I saw. It looked delicious. Hello”, he said, holding out his hand and giving Tom’s mother his sweetest smile. She smiled back but addressed herself to Sarah. She said, “Sarah, my name is Lillian, and I’m not a teacher anymore, I’ve retired,” before looking up at Stuart and taking the hand he’d held out a touch too long. Her voice had a studied warmth, but both her hand and her handshake were cool. “Has she been a pest?”, she asked. 

“She’s been charming. A charming pest”. He smiled down at Sarah, taking Lillian’s cue to avoid eye contact by directing the conversation through her. 

“Takes one to know one”, muttered Tom. 

Lillian gave Stuart a nod that might have been acknowledgement or dismissal—it was hard to tell. 

“Where’s Grandad?”, asked Sarah. “Oh look, over there.” Sarah pulled him over to where her grandfather was kneeling awkwardly on the floor, playing with the now sweet-smelling toddler. “Grandad, what’s your name?”, she asked. 

“Robert, sweetheart...”, he said and blew a raspberry at the baby. The baby giggled and put out a chubby hand to grab Stuart’s trouser leg. “Hello”, said Robert, removing the clutching hand and looking up at him, “Nice to meet you—again. I’m sorry, I believe I neglected to open your beer.” 

“Don’t worry about it”, said Stuart, though he felt sure Robert wasn’t overly troubled. 

“And this is my baby brother, Daniel”, said Sarah. “He’s about two. Is he two? Grandad, is he two?” 

“He’s just turned three, Sarah”. 

“Oh yeah. Daniel will like you if you can play peekaboo. D’you know that game? Never mind, Grandad can teach you, can’t you, Grandad?” 

“I assure you of my best endeavours, Sarah”, he said, turning back to Daniel and pulling a face at him. 

Stuart latched on to the legal term and decided to play Russian Roulette with it. “I take it you’re a solicitor, Mr Irwin”, he said. It was a relief to hand on that name but he resisted calling him Sir. “Robert, please”, Tom’s father replied, standing up stiffly from the floor, levering himself with his hands on his thighs, “I am, yes”. His handshake was firm and cordial, but his left hand on Stuart’s upper arm gave the appearance of bonhomie while holding him at bay. “Clever chap”, he said, half to Stuart and half to Tom. Tom smiled, and Stuart was unsure if it was for him or his father. 

“That’s everyone, ‘cept Uncle Tom. But I think you know him well enough already—thank you very much”, said Sarah, planting her hands firmly on her hips for emphasis. 

“Sarah!”, said Matthew, while Tom turned a shade pinker. 

“What? He does”, said Sarah, “Can I sit next to Stuart?” 

“I think Uncle Tom might like to sit next to Stuart”, said Jenny. She motioned towards the highchair that took up too much room at the other end of the table. “I put you down here with Daniel”. 

“Awww, I want to sit with Stuart”, Sarah complained, holding tight to his hand and swinging it back and forth as she gazed up at him. 

“Oh no”, he said, “Puppy dog eyes. Not the puppy dog eyes. Anything but the puppy dog eyes”. He laughed. “Could she sit between us? Tom? I don’t mind”. 

Stuart turned to Tom, and Tom turned to Jenny, and Jenny looked at her daughter, who turned the puppy dog eyes on her mother. Jenny said, “Oh, alright, or we’ll never hear the last of it. Yes, go and join the Stuart Dakin fan club. Bloody Hell, he works fast”. 

“Jenny, please”, said Tom. 

“Language, Jennifer”, said Lillian. 

“Sorry”, said Jenny. 

*******

Lunch passed mostly without incident—Sarah’s swinging feet made regular contact with their shins and prevented them from playing footsie, which, though it felt like torture, was for the best. Still, it was hard for fingers not to glance off each other when passing the salt, hard for eyes not to lock on the way to someone else, hard not to simply grin, or blush, or make the kind of yearning expressions lovers imagine invisible to anyone but themselves. Stuart was sure they were not invisible. Lillian said, “Eat your greens, Sarah”. Sarah stopped, vegetable-laden fork halfway to her mouth, “I am!” she said. 

There was a blur of small talk and family catch-up, and pass the carrots please, and Stuart chatted amiably with Tom’s father about his law course. He thought it wise to allow himself to be thoroughly patronised by the paterfamilias. “Tax, my boy”, said Robert, “plays fast and loose with the concept of truth, the concept of legal, if it comes to it—but that’s where the money is. If I had my time again...” 

Matthew, it turned out, was well versed in more than cartoons—he produced Tom’s TV show, so there was much to discuss there and few landmines to avoid. There were, in fact, only two unexploded devices of which Stuart was aware. Matthew raised the subject of Tom’s popularity among ladies of a certain age and class and several gushing letters the production office had received. He blundered on, teasing Tom, oblivious to Jenny shooting daggers at him across the table. Robert joked Tom might find a wealthy widow to marry among his fans, and Stuart could only assume he’d been deliberately shielded from the kissing-in-the-hall scandal. Matthew let out a sudden, “Ow!”, as his own shin was struck by his wife, while Lillian steered the conversation effortlessly towards Sarah’s nativity play, in which she’d played second camel—to rave reviews. Stuart was mightily impressed by this matriarchal pincer movement. 

The other incendiary was stumbled on when Tom trotted out his line about working with Stuart in education some years ago. Stuart wondered why he’d bothered, as no one had asked. It might have passed unnoticed, but for Sarah announcing that Stuart was twenty-four years old and Uncle Tom twenty-nine, and her making a valiant, but unsuccessful, attempt to calculate the difference. Stuart watched a cloud pass over Lillian’s face as she did her own calculations. “Don’t talk with your mouth full, Sarah”, said Lillian. “I’m not!”, said Sarah. 

Still, all in all, Stuart thought he’d acquitted himself rather well. Tom’s father fell asleep in an armchair while the others were playing games or watching TV. Stuart passed Tom in the hall, and their fingers brushed as they had at the table. But now they grabbed, threaded, pulled each other close, and the stored energy of the almost looks and the almost touches was poured into a stolen kiss. Tom said, moaning a little against Stuart's lips, “We can’t do this again, I’m already in trouble”, while proceeding to do this again. And again. Before Sarah called, “Uncle Tom, come and play Hungry Hippos”, and he was summoned to the living room. Tom sighed and tore himself away. He turned in the doorway and said, “You’ll be here, later, won’t you...after they’ve gone? You’ll stay?” Stuart wanted to smooth the doubtful frown from his forehead. It made his heart ache. But he smiled and said, “I’m not going to run away—I want to be here, honestly”. 

Yes, all things considered, he was pleased with himself—things were going better than the few expectations he’d had, better than he’d hoped. It wouldn’t be going too far to say he felt smug as he wandered back into the kitchen to find Lillian alone among the debris. 

But pride goes before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You want to know who's prideful and who's haughty, or both? Yeah, I'm working on that. Our boy may have bitten off more than he can chew.

**Author's Note:**

> I totally riffed off (nicked) Katy's idea of Dakin turning up at Irwin's on Christmas Day after not seeing him for years. It kept playing pleasantly around in my mind and all I did was shift it to New Year. I wrote this with unseemly haste in a few hours and mostly on my phone. It's as light as anything I'm ever likely to write and probably full of holes, but it was fun. Happy New Year, chums.


End file.
